


Add The Raindrops

by Control_Alt_Delete



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-24 14:49:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19725841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Alt_Delete/pseuds/Control_Alt_Delete
Summary: “Miles...” was what Aziraphale meant to say, his mouth moved, but no voice came with it. He took in the sight before him, and questions started lining up in his head. The young man’s face lit up a slight bit with an easy [if not a bit saddened and nervous] smile and Aziraphale braced himself for what was coming.“Hi… Dad.”





	1. We Start Here

**Author's Note:**

> this is the result of watching crack videos, vines, and interviews until three in the morning
> 
> Come share my madness. Cheers :)

It was a fine Sunday morning, and a portion of the first ray of light found an open window in an unremarkable corner shop in Soho. It seeped through a pair of calm lace curtains that served as the first line of defense of a small dingy bedroom against the rest of the world. The ray of light filled the room lazily, reflecting itself on the various cups, saucers, bottles, and silverware that littered the table and floor. It gently bounced against the yellow pages of a number of open books and scrolls and momentarily settled on a bit of short pale blond hair that poked out from underneath a comfortable yet worn old blanket. The man-shaped being under the blanket stirred for a moment, and the blanket fell lower, revealing the face of someone who is still well deep in their sleep, his eyes moving behind his eyelids. He was clearly dreaming of something rather pleasant as a smile formed at his lips ever so often. With every slow breath taken, a bit of dust flies off and lands somewhere else in the room. The small space wasn’t what someone would call filthy or neglected, no, it was just a bit too dusty, as if its owner didn’t mind respiratory issues or the mere obvious passing of time represented by layers and layers of it. Anyway, the man slept on, almost religiously, as he usually does on Sundays. 

A young man slept with his head against the glass window of a bus. It was the final stop before the driver headed off to a nearby kitchenette for a bit of coffee and bread, but this young dark-haired fellow [the last of his passengers] still seemed to be deep in his sleep despite his loud announcement from the driver’s seat earlier, and he watched him take slow lazy breaths before poking him once, twice, then another extra sharp one on the arm because he really was itching to get some coffee before his next shift starts. 

Miles bolted awake with a sharp breath, sitting up and clutching his duffel bag tighter. He forced his eyes open and looked around frantically, though if he were in any real trouble it wouldn’t have mattered because his vision was still blurry and unfocused because of the bleak fluorescent light from the bus and the sharp orange tinge of fresh sunlight from outside. “Where are we?” he asked particularly no one. His voice was dry and hoarse, and his last meal and drink was from around lunch the other day, which wasn’t even much to begin with. His money was simply enough to get him to—

“Soho,” the driver answered impatiently, almost too quickly. “Better get a move-on, boy. Last stop.” The young man looked out the window and his eyes lingered at the sight of the first people walking on the sidewalk. He absently loosened his hold on the bag and a small piece of paper fell to the floor, not that the driver cared [must have been just a candy wrapper]. After about thirty seconds, the driver looked up from his wrist watch and practically pulled the young man off the seat. 

Without another word but with a sharp angry glare nonetheless, Miles stood and slung the duffel bag on one shoulder and pulled out a box from under his seat. With both, he marched down the aisle with the driver behind him. As soon as he stepped out of the bus, the doors slid shut behind him and the muttering driver drove away as fast as he can, hoping that he can still get at least one of the first batch of bread for the day due to the simple fact they are the most delicious [as everyone knows]. 

Now as for the small piece of paper that fell to the floor, let it be said that it was never retrieved by its owner, but not because it had no significance. It was a small cutout of a photograph, with a few words written in rushed penmanship at the back. It was the kind of penmanship a young man would use when something was being dictated to him [maybe an address and a name] and he had to write with a mechanical pencil whose graphite kept on breaking, and with the piece of paper on his knee, and perhaps that is exactly what happened. As for the picture, if a person were to pick it up, they would say that the person framed within it is a rather nice fellow with an easy smile and gentle eyes, while others may perhaps even recall seeing the man in an old book shop and further comment that it looks as though the photograph has been taken on the same day. This was understandable, because despite it being taken from at least twenty years ago, Aziraphale, in his human form, looked exactly the same at that very moment as he sat up and smiled at the tea and [the last of the first batch of] bread that miraculously appeared on a small table near his bed. 

~~~

“We’re closed,” Aziraphale repeated a bit snappily, shaking his head at the nerve of some people to insist that establishments be open on Sundays. _Heathens_ , he’d say, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. People have a choice, and if they prefer to work on the Sabbath, the day of rest, then so be it, though he still couldn’t deny that it is annoying, especially if it is his shop that they chose to pester. 

Before he could turn back to the book which he was reading however, the knocking started again, and more forcefully this time. It rang like someone rapped directly at his skull, so he closed the book and placed it [a bit too forcefully] on a nearby table, and turning his head to face the door, he miracled the tormentor to remember that there was something important that they should have done first. The knocking stopped, and Aziraphale closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. 

Exactly ten seconds later the knocking started again. Aziraphale repeated his latest miracle but the knocking continued. He tightened his fists and marched towards the door, ready to face his tormentor, the only one who would dare to annoy him out of boredom, once and for all. “Crowley, I HAVE told you that I prefer to keep my Sund--” 

Aziraphale froze. 

Miles looked up as the door opened, not minding the bruise on his face nor the dampness and apparent stink on the sleeve of his hoodie. His duffel bag was gone, and the box [now also damp and roughly taped together] was on the ground near his feet. The older man at the doorway paused upon seeing him, and suddenly he was at a loss for words too. 

“Miles...” was what Aziraphale meant to say, his mouth moved, but no voice came with it. He took in the sight before him, and questions started lining up in his head. The young man’s face lit up a slight bit with an easy [if not a bit saddened and nervous] smile and Aziraphale braced himself for what was coming. 

“Hi… Dad.” 


	2. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the first one :] I really appreciate it. I'll learn to write better, i promise. I know the chapter is very short. I'm sorry.

_A shiver ran down his spine; Hospitals always made him uneasy. As he sat on one of the plastic chairs that lined the corridors, he couldn’t help but whisper a little prayer for everyone in the building, in pain or not. He watched doctors in white walk past him among the occasional nuns and pastors from different denominations, and their strides were full of purpose and tired determination. He prayed to grant them strength despite knowing that in the long run, it didn’t matter, but it didn’t mean that he shouldn’t try. For a place of healing it was full of fear and pain, and even he was falling victim to it. He closed his eyes and tried to picture himself somewhere else…_

~~~

Aziraphale fidgeted over the books and bottles atop a shelf at the back room. They have been in the same spot for the last decade or so and it never bothered him more than it did now so he re-stacked the books and moved the bottles to a nearby waste basket [which miraculously appeared for that sole purpose, labeled RECYCLABLE].

Behind him, Miles sat and ate a thick steak sandwich which his father coincidentally had in his small kitchen. It was served in a porcelain plate with a small selection of fruits, a glass of milk, and another for water. He has changed into a blue dress shirt that his father handed him as soon as he stepped into the building. It was a perfect fit, and his suspicions grew more with every small coincidence his father revealed afterwards, notably the heavy breakfast and the washing machine at the back room, but he focused on the meal which he was thankful for. 

Eyeing the man, he decided to ask questions later. _Welcome blessings lest they shun you completely_ , some old people would say. _Okay_ , he agreed. _Okay._

Aziraphale fixed himself a cup of tea and sat, watching the boy across the table and ignoring a warm fuzzy feeling in his chest [it was pride, but he’d have his wings ripped off before he’d acknowledge it as it is]. He was happy, and scared--but happy, er… feeling blessed [maybe that’s the word?] to see the boy in front of him [My God, he has grown so much!]. The boy had rough palms when they shook hands, he recalled and his hair was darker than he remembered. The boy’s eyes were blue, exactly like his, with little specks of yellowish amber scattered along the edges, and for this Aziraphale smiled. The boy looked up and met his gaze for a moment, a quiet acknowledgement between mouthfuls of sandwich and the continuous humming of the washing machine, before reaching for the water and taking a long drink. Aziraphale felt guilt, like a blade twisting in his guts—the boy was genuinely hungry. 

“Don’t you like milk?” Aziraphale asked, he noticed how the glass was moved slightly farther from the rest. Miles shook his head in response. With this the angel furrowed his brow in confusion. The last time he saw him, he rather liked milk—in fact, he didn’t consume anything else. He had to remind himself that it has been twenty years, causing a wave of sadness to sweep through him, but he shook it off in a blink. “What do you like? Tea? Coffee? I have wine at the back,” he rushed through his words as he raked his mind for other suggestions before stifling a cringe, “Beer? …Vodka?” 

“I’m fine,” Miles smiled stiffly, suddenly catching the panic and nerves in his father’s voice. Aziraphale looked at him expectantly, so he added, “But if you have it, coffee would be nice.” 

“With cream?” Aziraphale asked, already thinking of getting himself a mocha. 

“Black…two sugars. Please.” 

“That sounds wonderful! I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Aziraphale replied too cheerfully before walking out the room. Miles nodded politely and smiled, and when he was gone, he finished the sandwich and looked at the glass of milk. He reached out to touch it and upon contact with the glass a sad smile tugged at his lips. It has been on the table for more than thirty minutes. Somehow, it was still warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Quokkas are cute-- i mean, just ADORABLE-- look at the way those little buggers smile! Did you know that they throw their own babies to distract predators so they can escape? Now that's quality parenting over there." - Crowley
> 
> I think it's pretty cool he loves animals with "big brains" lol
> 
> I'm too nervous to show him the kid. But he IS coming. He's driving to Soho at this very moment.


End file.
